Sweating in the desert lands is a common enough thing.
Chafing is a natural accompaniment.
Add in a manhood that will be hard all month, one that needs to be strapped down, and the situation becomes of a new order.

Ravar strode through the networked honeycomb of side streets off the main districts towards his house. At least, he tried to stride, but limped instead. His left leg dragged, tumescent glans rubbing painfully on the sheath where it had slipped by a fraction. Wincing, he lifted his foot awkwardly.

Pick ’em up, set ’em down, he told himself, nothing else to it.
Except there was plenty else to it.

Shadows from tall tower buildings occupied by the poor bathed him in coolness. Hairy vagrants emanating unlovely smells, slumped against crumbling walls, watched him pass by, their eyes curious to see the new walk he’d picked up.

He’d taken this route home many times, and the vagrants knew the sight of him. He just had to get home, as soon as possible. The thought of taking an imp drawn rickshaw had occurred to him as he passed one in the Bazaar. Looking at the 4 foot tall creature, it’s leathery hide of stone grey, leering at him, he’d recalled the last time.

No, no rickshaws. On foot would do.
The banging and rocking of the vehicle over flagstones might spoil his trousers.

He slowed on entering a sunlit alley, lit a cigarette, unable to continue his storming pace of the previous two miles. There was only another mile left, and the lowered blood pressure from the smoke inhalation would diminish the rubbing. One eyelid twitched, shivered, lay still. He squinted against the rising tobacco fumes and strode on.
Rudely reminded that he could not stride, Ravar slowed again, wincing.

The impact came head on, shocking him from his distracted reverie as he had been staring at a pair of pretty girls jogging down the alleyway. Juggle juggle of firm buttocks encased in purple and green leggings, strappy sports tops showing reddened and sweaty backs- BANG!! He stumbled, put a hand out to steady himself on the nearby wall, shook his head.

BzzZZZZ!!!

It was a hornet.
As big as a fist, red and orange striped, hovering inches from his face. He breathed relief. Just a hornet. The wings blurred behind it, tail end curving under a big furry body like an insectile tongue, poison pointed tip black.

He stopped what he was doing, slung his bag onto his shoulder by the strap, lifted both hands up. The hornet watched his hands, fingernail sized compound eyes gleaming.

His hands enclosed the beast and brought it down. Opening his palms, he stared in at it.
It stared back.

Friend to hornets, keeper of secrets, writer of…of fancy lines. That’s me.

A further buzz, the hornet spread its wings and then lay still, folding into the furry shell again. Ravar opened his hands and watched the dangerous beast- for all hornets on Port Kerrigan are deadly poisonous -fly up beside his face, hover down to land on his shoulder, do a circle, seeming to chase its own deathly tail, and settle there on the shirt.

Recovering from his sudden shock, he turned the corner and received another surprise.

“Paper, dearie?” called a round shouldered lady, one slim hip leant on an edge of her newspaper stand; she was in her mid 40’s, red hair in a bob cut, bangs framing an Elfin face. When she opened her mouth to ask again, he saw a single eye turning on her tongue, hovering inside of her mouth.

The cigarette almost fell from his fingers. It was an eye of pure emerald, glinting dangerously. He gulped, knew the sign for a warning. He was about to shake his head, go on his way, when he noticed the paper headline in her upheld hand.

Gangster Gold Forgery Ring Smashed

In curiousity he paused, sure that there was more here than met the eye. Signs and symbols were often open to interpretation, and one saw many in service to the only Goddess.

“What’s all this about?” he asked, jetting twin plumes of smoke from his nostrils.

“Bunch o’ rogue wizards.” she replied, tone harshened by years of smoking, though still pleasant to hear, “Illegal transmutation of gold. Got caught yesterday eve, like. The wizards in they tower ‘ave sentenced ’em to rot in the dungeons of de Durance.”

“Heavens!” he exclaimed, “I will take a paper after all, cheers.”

He took out a quarter copper from the change in his pocket, swapped it for the paper.

“G’day ta you, Ravar.”

He stopped mid-turn, regarded her.

“How do you know my name?”

She looked surprised.

“Ye always walk dis way, bru. Does ye nay recognise me?”

This was too much, and so he decided to forgo any further conversation, headed off after a promise to stop by another day for a chat. When he turned his head on exiting the sunlit alleyway he saw that the hornet had gone to sleep.

“Huh.” he murmured, and saw that he’d arrived on his street behind the Banking District.

*
It had known the workmanship as well as the worship of human hands. They had roved over its glazed and shining surface as moonflashes slanted a silver cross onto the figure set in the exact centre of the attic.

Not on the ash floor panels was it set, but atop a staggered cross pedestal of obsidian. A thinner square of the stuff lay beneath at a diamond angle to the cross and radiating out by three extra feet. She looked down from a height of almost 6 feet, clay body formed after that first meeting in an aethereal dream realm, covered over with glaze that morning and painted by gibbous moonlight.

Come dawn, he’d been startled on seeing the figure at the foot of his bed, the clay still soft, pieces of it on his hands and on the duvet. Black cloak, emerald eyes, red lips, creamy alabaster skin, gold heels, bare shaven pussy and large umber nipples.

Ravar whimpered, on the edge, cockhead sending out precum in a wide spatter pattern as his hands stroked feverishly. Blue sunlight flashed a diagonal beam across the attic on the side of the Goddess’ figure, highlighting him in sweat dripping shimmery reflections on dark stone fourways.

He knelt on wide spread knees, buttocks clenched on bent ankles, back ramrod straight and head twisting, lips and jaw working incomprehensible patterns of mindless surrender that grew as his eyes gazed upward.

His eyelids shivered and his mind chased the subconscious desires to obey, obey, OBEY the instructions, sounds of flesh slapping flesh in a melting rhythm- fwa-appa-appa-fwa-appa-appa-fwa-apap -pulsing out a beat from the gen-u-wine sapphire vertical eye pendant dangling from silver links between those luscious globes of obsession inducing wonder, blue flashes lighting up his face and throbbing shaft, those all-knowing and all-seeing eyes sparking green fire into his brain.

A ring of gold gleamed about his manhood, the red scarf from Annah Moravia tying off in loops his balls and a swollen shaft. The bowl on the highest step before the Goddess figure- bowl and figure made while he dreamed, dreamed of his Goddess -splashed up translucent absinthe style fluid with every drop of his cum that landed in it.

Not all of it landed in the foot wide bowl, however. Plenty fell to shine on the steps, on the plinth of square blackly gleaming obsidian, adding a sticky sheen of thick and hot male milk on the dark stone.

SNAP

The sound made him jerk, foreskin pushing up over his glans, wrists shudderingly drawing it back in a sharp motion. Another SNAP from the statue echoed about the attic.

Far away in a deeply buried substrata of his consciousness, Ravar understood he would have lots of cleaning to do, later. He’d gone many rounds of SNAP’s so far.

Time was of no consequence.

Each new SNAP tore new pleasure through him, tangled tingles spreading from his loins to every part of his thrumming body, flowing back just under the skin’s surface; a catchwave tripping over at the crest, before becoming a tsunami about to crash on the beachhead. Every Goddess SNAP caused the golden ring to tighten for a minute, then widen again.

He whimpered, following the sapphire pendant beat, stroking, stroking for his Goddess, to pay tribute, give her what she wanted from him, what she deserved, what she DEMANDED.

And got.

Pleasure or pain did she give in equal measure, showing him the ecstasy in pain, how to hurt so good so he would ache forever, just so he could please her in any possible way she might want to use him.

The pendant stopped flashing. Ravar’s back arched, his lips parting wide.

“Hooooooooooh!” he cried out, head thrown back, hips thrust forward. One spurt flashed out, viscous and heavy, splashing the side of the bowl, sliding down the glaze, joined by two more in rapid successions. His hips came back, jerked forward again.

“Huhh..angngh…” and on the cum came, dribbling now, last inch of his prick in the bowl, pointing down to the green absinthe fluid, little emerald drops pinging up as forceful little spurts came forth. One, two, three, a few last dribbles. His hands worked, corkscrew fashion, from the base to tip, back down, like a washerwoman, teasing out the final drops.

Ravar sank back, glistening all over, head lowered and eyes closed. He shivered then stilled.

The first ritual was complete.

Tomorrow the moon would begin waxing across the sky, and there were so many more prayers to take care of. He would be back. Later. His head lifted, eyes opening to look up, see the figure dark again, blue sunlight shimmering on the pendant. The statue’s eyes, lips and nipples no more as bright as they had been so vividly had done mere seconds ago.

But he would have to clean up before paying new tribute.

When the figure called him, he obeyed. The fingers snapping the gold ring tighter, cock twitching and slapping against his belly every time, making him hurt, groan and whimper as he roved about the obsidian pedestal on shuffling knees, face low to the black stone, arse in the air and tongue stuck out, licking every drop of cum that had not gone into the bowl.

Then he was allowed to masturbate for her.

A Goddess has exact requirements, and never without good reasons.

Ravar loved meeting those requirements.

Every one.